


we can be heroes

by novelized



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, but a little more-than-friendshippy too, mostly friendshippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:49:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam and Blaine make it back to Lima they’re on an insane adrenaline rush, Sam’s face flushed red and Blaine’s hair uncurling at the ends, and in all of their excitement they sort of forgot an important component to this whole situation: they lock the McKinley doors at 5 pm, and it’s just now a little after six. </p><p>(missing scene from Dynamic Duets.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we can be heroes

When Sam and Blaine make it back to Lima they’re on an insane adrenaline rush, Sam’s face flushed red and Blaine’s hair uncurling at the ends, and in all of their excitement they sort of forgot an important component to this whole situation: they lock the McKinley doors at 5 pm, and it’s just now a little after six. Their original idea was to sneak it back into their own trophy case, then smile sort of self-importantly when everyone realized tomorrow morning that it’d returned to its rightful place. That, clearly, was out. Sam doesn’t want to complain or anything, because Blaine’s been going through a rough patch lately, but he _is_ the only one that’s been carrying the trophy and it’s a lot heavier than he remembers it being; it’d been fine when they first snatched it out of the Warbler’s case, but then they’d carried it across a long yard (and they could’ve taken a shortcut, but it would’ve ruined the effect) and then a parking lot, and now they’re standing outside of locked doors and Sam’s arms are seriously starting to ache.

“Well,” Blaine says, looking at him.

“We probably should’ve thought this through,” Sam agrees, and then they turn around and he army-marches the trophy back to Blaine’s car, because it’s not like they really have any other options. They tuck it right back where it came from, and Sam’s never been so glad to drop something heavy in his life, and this from a guy who’d benchpressed his friend’s older brother on a dare.

Blaine crawls into the front seat and Sam takes shotgun, and they stare out the windshield thoughtfully. Well, Blaine’s probably being thoughtful. Sam’s admiring the way his arms bulge when he curls his wrists this way and then that. Blaine snaps his fingers. “Okay, here’s the plan,” he says, and Sam sits up straight because Blaine’s got that whole inspirational-eyes thing going on, and that’s not something he wants to discourage. Especially not after the last few weeks. “We take this back to my house, and then we wake up really early tomorrow morning and eat waffles and then we sneak it back into the choir room.”

“Waffles?”

Blaine shrugs. “I just really want waffles.”

It’s the best plan they’ve got, or, rather, the only plan they’ve got, so Sam nods and Blaine puts the car in gear and backs out of his spot. “Should I drop you off at --” Blaine starts, and then actually looks pained when he realizes how he’s supposed to finish that sentence. This is what bros do, Sam figures. They jump in before their bros have to say the name of their ex-boyfriend’s dad and stepmom, especially when saying their names gives him this pinched constipated-angsty face and makes him recite sappy lines from crappy romantic comedies. 

“Actually,” Sam jumps in, “do you think I could crash at yours tonight? I know it’s a school night, but if your parents are weird about it we could lie and say we’re doing a project on, like, igneous rocks or something.”

A brief smile graces Blaine’s face. “Igneous rocks?” he repeats, taking a turn out of the parking lot and towards his neighborhood. “What do you know about igneous rocks?”

“They’re very... rocky.”

Most of the ride is spent in silence; Blaine keeps glancing into the rearview mirror like he has to double-check that the trophy hasn’t mysteriously vanished, and Sam’s rooting through Blaine’s glovebox because he’s feeling pretty nosy. There’s nothing incriminating in there, though, no condoms or pictures of naked men or cucumber-shaped vegetables, or whatever it is gay dudes like. He’s just stumbled across a box that contains not one but five emergency backup bowties, and he’s about to say something when a Katy Perry song comes on the radio and Blaine takes a sharp breath through his nose. He drops the bowties and glances at him all concernedly. It’s there again. That look in Blaine’s eyes.

When Sam was little he used to get really bad nightmares, and his dad would crawl into bed with him and tell him that he was in a bad place, but it was okay, because the bad place didn’t really exist. The world was a good place (except for, like, wars and starving babies and stuff, but it wasn’t like his dad would tell a seven-year-old about all that). He just needed to get back to the good place. Nightmares couldn’t touch him there. It’s a little childish, but that’s what he figures he needs to do for Blaine. Bring him out of the bad place. Where his demons can’t touch him.

Sam shuts off the radio, and Blaine seems totally caught off guard by the action. “Man,” Sam says evenly, not faltering, “Katy Perry is super overplayed these days.”

Blaine’s quiet for a beat, but after a moment he clears his throat and says, “Yeah. I guess she is.”

“I’m kind of in the mood to sing, anyway. Hope you don’t mind.” Before Blaine can respond, Sam’s rolling down the passenger side window -- and it’s chilly outside, no more than 45 degrees -- and shoving his head out, wasting exactly zero seconds before belting the opening line to some dumb song about turkey, and Blaine begrudgingly gives into a smile. Sam’s hair is going crazy in the wind, and most of his words are being drowned out by the rush of air as they drive, but he’s still singing at the top of his lungs. Blaine grabs Sam one-handedly by the shirtsleeve and yanks him back into the car.

“You’re going to get me arrested,” he says, but he’s laughing, so Sam considers that a success.

“It’s The Thanksgiving Song, dude,” is all he says back. “Adam Sandler. It’s a classic.”He puts on his best Waterboy impression, which is a pretty good impression, if he does say so himself. “My mama says that alligators are ornery because they got all them teeth and no toothbrush.”

Blaine shakes his head, but still, he’s smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

Sam shrugs, feeling pretty good about himself. He’s apparently no longer thinking about that lameass Katy Perry song. He should get paid for this. Then again, that’d probably be like some weird friendship prostitution, and that’s a line he promised himself he’d never cross, not after that 50 dollar bill that smelled like baby oil and the woman at Stallionz with the really long nails. “Your parents are going to hate me, aren’t they?”

That earns an incredulous look from Blaine. “Are you kidding me?” he says. “You’re straight, you play football, and they raised Cooper Anderson, so they’re used to -- well, obnoxiousness.”

Sam takes that as a compliment. He thinks.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Blaine adds, “if they try to trade me in for you by morning.” 

“I’d definitely do it,” Sam says, no hesitation. “No offense man, but I’ve seen your house. I could definitely rock that crib.”

“Did you just say _crib_? Uh, Sam, 90’s MTV called and they want their slang back.”

“Just drive.” Sam points out the windshield and Blaine reluctantly turns his attention back to the road; when he’s sure he’s not looking anymore, Sam bites back a grin. “Hey, remember the look on that greasy dude’s face that wanted in your pants when they realized we were getting away?”

Blaine laughs. “That was a total movie moment. Well worth the unnecessary sprint.”

“Says the guy not carrying the trophy,” Sam points out, but carefully, not accusingly.

“Yeah, well, you’re wearing a suit. My costume is kind of chafing my thighs, you should consider yourself the lucky one here.”

Sam wrinkles his nose. “Please don’t ever say ‘thighs’ and ‘chafing’ in the same sentence again.”

“Then you probably _really_ don’t want to hear about what it’s doing to my --”

Immediately Sam throws his hands over his ears, blocking out whatever shudder-inducing thing Blaine was about to say, and he loudly sings the second verse of the turkey song for as long as it takes before he dissolves into laughter, and Blaine’s laughing too, and the sun’s starting to go down and it’s casting a warm light over the road, and they got the trophy back, and Blaine’s staying at McKinley. It’s a good moment. Sam’s never really had to want for friends before, he’s never had trouble accruing a group of buddies to do stupid shit with. Blaine’s different. Their friendship is different. And it’s kind of nice.

When they finally pull into Blaine’s driveway, all of the lights are off, and there are no other cars. Blaine frowns. “My parents must not be home,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate, so Sam just follows him out and up the sidewalk.

“Think the trophy will be okay there overnight?” he asks.

“What,” Blaine says, “like they’re going to drive all the way out to my house and break into my car just to steal it back?”

They pause.

Five minutes later, Sam is hauling the trophy through the front door. 

It’s ghostly silent inside Blaine’s house, and, even weirder, everything is put perfectly in place. Burt and Carole’s house is clean, sure, but sometimes they kick their shoes off in the front entrance and sometimes there’s a book or magazine lying around. Here, though, every single patch of floor looks freshly vacuumed, every window recently cleaned. “My mom’s kind of a neat freak,” Blaine explains when he catches Sam’s look. 

“Kind of?”

“She dusts off the doorknobs whenever she leaves a room.” Blaine scrunches his forehead. Brittany, he realizes, has a point: his eyebrows really do look like small animals from that angle.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “like I never expected the Anderson parents to be weird about things.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Sam’s grin stretches all the way across his face. Not like that’s hard to do. “Do you coordinate your bowties with your socks before or after you do laundry?”

Blaine shoves Sam’s shoulder. “Shut up,” he says, amused. “Come on. Let’s order food in. I bet my parents left me money.”

They did, actually; two twenties clipped to a notepad in the kitchen. There’s no note or anything, just his mom’s scribble with an “xo” underneath. “Dang,” Sam says, snatching the bills and peering at them under the light, as if he’s checking to make sure they’re not counterfeit. “That’s what I call good parenting.”

Blaine makes a thoughtful humming sort of noise but doesn’t actually say anything in response. “How does Chinese sound?” he asks.

“Kind of like English, but with shorter words and a lot of ‘ch’ sounds,” Sam says.

Blaine groans.

It takes their food just under an hour to arrive; in that time, Blaine gives Sam the official tour of his home, which is mostly spent in Cooper’s room, because Sam wants to see “how celebrities live.” Blaine points out that two commercials and fifteen minutes of American Idol airtime just because he’d happened to sit three rows behind Simon Cowell doesn’t exactly count as _celebritydom_ , but Sam doesn’t care. He seems sort of delighted when he dislodges some magazines from under Cooper’s old mattress and Blaine hurriedly leaves the room.

They end up on the floor of Blaine’s bedroom, boxes of rice and noodles and three different kinds of chicken spread out between them, talking with their mouths full (Sam) and spreading napkins on their laps (Blaine). “Did you ever come close to doing that Warbler dude?” Sam asks him curiously, wiping a sesame seed off his chin. He wasn’t bad-looking, if you could get past the whole douchey hair thing.

“No,” Blaine says, but for some reason that makes him look sort of sad, and not because he’d missed the opportunity to tap that. Sam changes the subject.

“Did you see the cat poop under the armchair?”

“What? No. That’s disgusting.”

“Tell me about it. And there was hair everywhere. The cat was good for dramatic effect, sure, but I would’ve gotten something that doesn’t shed as much. Like a monkey. Monkeys are intimidating.”

“Back in _my_ day,” Blaine says, using his fake pompous voice, “we never would’ve let animals into Dalton. Just goes to show that place has really gone to the dogs.”

Sam laughs and slaps Blaine on the back; he obviously wasn’t expecting it, because he drops a forkful of rice onto his lap. Good thing he’d gone for the napkin. “To the dogs,” Sam says. “A pun. Good one.”

Blaine shakes his head at him again. He seems to do that a lot. “Thanks. I think.”

The nice thing about Blaine’s parents unknowingly paying for his dinner is that Sam doesn’t feel bad about stuffing his face with it. A few years ago he would’ve scoffed at anything that came with soy sauce, but now he’s making up for lost time or something, because he cares a lot more about shoveling chicken into his mouth than the sheer number of jumping jacks he’d have to do to get rid of it. And Blaine’s mostly just picking at his food, so maybe he’s trying to eat for both of them or something. Except that’s something that pregnant women always say, and that takes his brain to a really weird place, so he shakes his head and stops thinking about it. 

“You got any good movies?” Sam asks, when he’s full enough to burst. He lets out a big, nasty burp, and Blaine doesn’t say anything about it, even if he does give him a look.

“I have a few,” Blaine says, and nods at a cupboard in the corner.

Sam pushes himself up off the floor and ambles over; he opens one of the doors and his jaw literally drops, because Blaine must have eight billion movies, most of them blu-ray, and they’re all in pristine condition, like they’ve never even been touched.

“When I was thirteen,” Blaine says, and Sam turns his head to gape at him instead, “I asked my dad if I could borrow some money to see a movie with a friend. He said, ‘you like movies, huh?’ and now that’s pretty much what he buys me for every single holiday. Even Easter. Movies.” He points towards one of the lower shelves. “The entire Nightmare on Elm Street collection. I don’t even _like_ horror movies.”

Sam runs his finger along one the shelf and comes away with dust. “Good thing you didn’t ask to borrow money for the ballet,” he says. “I don’t know how many tutus this thing would hold.”

Blaine laughs, and for once, it’s kind of like a startled, unguarded laugh. He usually sounds like he’s allowing himself a chuckle. This one sounds like the laugh came bursting out of his chest cavity like that one scene in Alien. 

“Let’s watch The Dark Knight,” Sam says, pulling the case down from its spot. (It’s alphabetically ordered. It takes Sam, like, five minutes to realize that, but he does, and he’s not at all surprised.) “Heath Ledger’s Joker is legendary.” He pauses, pops open the DVD, and then, because he’s curious, “Do you think he’s hot?”

“Who?” Blaine says, looking confused. 

“Heath Ledger.”

“Do I think Heath Ledger is hot?”

Sam moves forward, stopping just short of Blaine, and holds up three fingers in front of his face. “Do you have hearing problems?” he says. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Blaine pushes his hand away. “Why are you asking me that?”

“What? I don’t know. It’s a question.” Puck’s never wigged out when he asked about Megan Fox’s boobs. Finn’s never gone all weird when he brought up Angelina Jolie. Of all dudes he could’ve picked, Sam thinks Heath Ledger was a pretty safe choice. Everyone thought he was hot. Even Sam thought he was hot, in a weird dudely actor way. “Look,” Sam says, “here’s what I know about your taste. You like guys that wear weird scarf things and know the whole Single Ladies dance and watch movies that aren’t even in English.”

“You mean I like Kurt,” Blaine says, point blank. 

“Exactly my point! I have no idea what your type is. You don’t ever talk about dudes you think are hot. And, by the way, what is _with_ that whole non-English thing, who the hell wants to _read_ a movie?”

Blaine looks oddly serious. Sam hadn’t really meant for it to be a thing, or anything, but apparently it is, because after a minute Blaine starts rubbing the back of his neck. “You mean you wouldn’t be weirded out if we were at -- I don’t know, the mall -- and I elbowed you and said, ‘Look at that guy, he’s really attractive’?”

“I’d probably make fun of you for saying ‘attractive,’” Sam says, “but no, I wouldn’t be weirded out. Why would I be weirded out?”

After a second Blaine softens. “Thanks, Sam,” he says, which is weird, because he didn’t even do anything. Gay dudes are so easy. Maybe he should switch teams.

It’s not even that late, but for some weird reason, they’re still wearing their superhero costumes -- or, well, most of them; Sam’s jacket is dangling from the back of Blaine’s chair, and Blaine’s utility belt was discarded by his bookshelf. “I’m going to change into sweatpants,” Blaine says, gathering the empty Chinese cartons as he goes. He looks thoughtfully at Sam. “You didn’t bring any clothes to sleep in. Do you want to borrow a pair of shorts?”

“Sure,” Sam says, and apparently neither of them are really thinking, because Blaine digs some out from his dresser and Sam marches into the bathroom to change, except once he’s kicked his dress pants off he attempts to step into Blaine’s shorts, and not only do they cling to his thighs in a seriously unflattering way, they are _shorter than his boxers._ He looks straight up Quailman in these. “Um, dude,” Sam calls from behind the door, “these things are serious nut-huggers. Do you have anything that wasn’t bought in the little boys’ section of Sears?”

Sam can’t _hear_ Blaine roll his eyes, obviously, but he’s pretty sure that’s what’s going on as he calls back that he’ll try to find something of Coop’s for him instead. He finds a pair of basketball shorts that _don’t_ give him a wedgie, and Sam slips those on, strips down to his wifebeater, and heads back into the room.

Blaine’s wearing grey sweatpants and a faded tshirt, which is a far cry from his usual wardrobe, but his hair is still perfectly in place. Sam squints and reaches out to poke at it, because he’s sort of curious to see if his finger could leave an indent, but Blaine slaps his hand away before he gets the chance. He has really good reflexes. “You might as well wash that shit out,” Sam says offhandedly. “I’ve seen the beast, remember? It doesn’t scare me anymore.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t seen the beast when it wakes up with bedhead,” Blaine mumbles back, and presses ‘play’ on the movie. They turn the lights off but leave a lamp on, and the screen’s facing the bed, and that also looks like the most comfortable place to put his body, so Sam stretches out at the foot of the mattress and leaves plenty of room for Blaine. 

Incidentally, he was right. Blaine’s bed gets a 12,000 on the comfort scale.

Blaine sits and curls his legs up underneath him, hands draped over his knees, and Sam mostly watches the TV but also sneaks glances at his face every now and then, because he figures it’s sort of his unofficial job to watch out for -- for something, he doesn’t know, lip quivers or chin trembles, whatever. The imaginary bad place has a way of sneaking up on you. Sam hadn’t cried for weeks when he’d been dumped by -- well, every girl ever, basically, but then, he hadn’t gone all stupid-smiled every time they’d walked into a room, either.

“Sam,” Blaine says, when he catches him looking for like the ninth time that night, “you really don’t have to do this.”

“Do what? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are. Is that why you wanted to spend the night? So you could babysit me?”

“Uh, no.” Sam’s actually kind of offended. “I’m not an ass. I wanted to spend the night so I could use you for all of your cool toys.”

Blaine’s stony-faced expression breaks and a short smile tugs at his lips. Sam’s really good at this. “Fine,” he says. “Then either move beside me or quit looking at me. You’re distracting me from the movie.”

It’s a fair compromise; Sam crawls up to the headboard instead, settling in next to Blaine, their shoulders bumping. For ten minutes neither of them say anything. Sam’s eyelids are actually starting to feel a little heavy -- it was either the strenuous exercise or the Chinese food, or some weird combination of both, but then Blaine clears his throat and Sam shakes himself out of it enough to hear Blaine say his name.

“Yeah?”

Blaine presses pause on the movie. “I didn’t really get to...” he starts, but then he trails off mid-sentence. “I just. Thanks. For today.”

“Dude,” Sam says, turning to look at Blaine head on. “You have _got_ to stop thinking me for stuff. Especially stuff that anyone would do for his bro.”

“Not anyone,” Blaine argues. He looks a little embarrassed, but not crazy embarrassed. Just like he feels dumb for admitting it out loud. “No one at Dalton exactly begged me not to go. You know? I mean, they asked me to stay, but it was always, like, the Warblers need you, or, what’re we going to do without our lead soloist? You didn’t do that. You didn’t ask me to stay just to help you guys at Sectionals. And that was really cool.”

Sam punches Blaine in the arm, because that’s how he deals with most things in life. There’s sentimentality in that punch, anyway. “Maybe I didn’t ask you to stay to help us at Sectionals because I know I’m so much better than you.”

“Sure,” Blaine says, and this time Sam _sees_ him roll his eyes. He punches him again.

“Maybe I only asked you to stay because I know how nerdy you look in that blazer.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the ticking of your _Spiderman watch._ ”

Sam glances down at his wrist. “My Spiderman watch is awesome,” he says, only slightly stung.

Blaine’s really easy. He looks like he feels bad, which is dumb, because he’s said much worse about people he’s known a lot longer. Still, though, Blaine reaches out and grabs his wrist, tugs it towards his face, like he’s inspecting to see just how awesome it is. He nods solemnly. “It is,” he says. “I was wrong. I take it back.”

“You better take it back.”

“I take it back,” Blaine repeats. His eyes flicker up to meet Sam’s, and they’re crinkled just a tiny bit in the corners, like he’s doing that thing he does where he holds back a laugh. The thing is, though, he’s still holding Sam’s wrist, and he’s kind of unconsciously rubbing his thumb along his skin, and Sam would point it out but he thinks that might make it weird. And also it feels sort of good, in a weird way. In a way most bros don’t rub their bros’ wrists.

And then, it’s like, Sam’s brain kicks into overdrive. Because Blaine’s eyes still look a little sad even if he’s trying to hide it,, and he probably hasn’t had a guy in his bed since Kurt, and Sam’s not even _thinking_ about the fact that they’ve probably done it on these sheets because he’s more concerned about Blaine’s mental state, which isn’t something he’s used to being concerned about, because he’s a good friend and all but a lot of his friendships are really shallow. He and Puck had once sat in his living room for four hours and not talked about anything but Twinkies and boobs, which was impressive, even for them. But he’s resigned himself to the fact that he and Blaine will likely never talk about boobs, and probably not even Twinkies, not since the whole Hostess debacle.

But that doesn’t even matter, because their friendship is -- he doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t have anything to compare it to. It’s revolutionary, he guesses. It’s new.

And then he kisses him.

One of the things about Sam’s brain is that he can’t really focus on two things at once. It’s why his grades are kind of bad. Well, that and the dyslexia thing, he forgets about that a lot. But he can’t think about their friendship and also consciously think about not kissing him, and it’s sort of just habit, because usually when someone’s touching him like that -- light, gentle -- it means they’re about to make out until the cows come home, or until the parents come home, whichever happens first. And Blaine has really nice-looking lips, and he just wants him to stop looking sad, and it seemed like an easy fix. So he kisses him. And, surprised, Blaine kisses him back.

But only for a second.

Because a moment later Blaine makes a strangled sort of noise against his mouth and pulls away, looking a little stunned. It’s better than embarrassed, Sam thinks. Or pissed. 

His mouth had tasted like bourbon chicken. He’s had better.

“Sam,” Blaine says, voice all high and tight, “what --”

“Sorry.” Sam licks his lips. He’s never kissed a dude before, honest, no matter what the kids at his old school would say. But he’s not really freaking out about it either. Not now, at least. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

There’s a tense moment.

“Dude,” Sam adds, just for good measure.

But Blaine’s not exactly wiping his mouth off in disgust, either, so that’s something. “Was that a pity kiss?” he asks, looking at him curiously. He seems to realize he’s still holding Sam’s wrist and quickly lets go, and that slightly-embarrassed expression is back, and Sam doesn’t like it, so he acts-not-thinks once again.

This time Blaine seems like he realizes it’s coming; he tenses up a little, when Sam presses his lips against Blaine’s, but then he just lets himself go. The kiss is awkward, exploratory. Sam bumps Blaine’s nose when he tilts his head that way, and Blaine’s lips end up pressed against the side of his mouth not once but three times, but it’s nice the way kissing always is and exciting the way kissing someone for the first time usually is. They kiss until Blaine’s breathing kind of heavily, until Cooper’s shorts feel a little bit tighter, and then they pull back simultaneously and look at each other and then away, each other and then away.

“Well,” Blaine says.

“ _That_ ,” Sams says, “was a pity kiss.”

Blaine punches him this time, and a lot harder than Sam had ever punched him, but he figures he deserves it. He’s pretty sure they’re done kissing. He’s also pretty sure it’s sacrilegious to spring a boner in someone’s shorts while making out with their little brother, but no one has to know about that.

Blaine clears his throat. “Are we going to talk about --”

“Nope.”

And, looking strangely okay with that, Blaine nods.

They don’t talk for a few minutes after that. Blaine does a lot of glancing around the room like he’s somehow never seen it before, and Sam messes with his Spiderman watch, setting it first to California time and then what he imagines is New Zealand time, but is probably more like Hawaii time. Finally, though, Blaine turns to look at him, and there’s nothing hidden or guarded in his expression, which is how Sam knows everything is going to be cool. “Should we keep watching the movie?” he asks.

“Sure,” Sam says. “But let’s not pretend like you’re not in it just for Heath Ledger.”

Blaine rolls his eyes again. He’s really good at that.

“By the way,” Sam says, and his shorts have gone back to normal, and _this_ has gone back to normal. As normal as it ever was. “You’re carrying the trophy tomorrow. I don’t care how emotionally damaged you are.”

“Fine,” Blaine says, “but I’m taking all the credit.”

They both know that’s not true. Sam elbows Blaine, and Blaine elbows Sam, and them Sam falls off the bed and Blaine laughs until he’s wheezing, and Sam laughs too, even though his ass kind of hurts.

Eventually he gets back up on the bed. Their shoulders bump. Sam’s ankle crosses over Blaine’s. The garage door opens and they don’t even have to scramble to separate, because it really is as innocent as it looks, and that’s enough. He smiles, and Blaine presses play.

**Author's Note:**

> title from David Bowie's "Heroes." because i am original like that.


End file.
